truth. The name she repeated over and over again, was that of Fanfar.
Whenever she closed her eyes she saw him, haughty and courageous,
risking his life to save that of his adopted father. She heard his rich
voice and the words he uttered:

"Make yourself beloved."

She struggled with all her power against this infatuation, and had come
to Paris. There she saw him again, no longer in his theatrical costume,
but dressed like the young men she met in society. He had saved her from
being killed by the heavy timber. He had held her a minute in his arms,
and she had felt his heart beat against her own. A hundred times since
then she had seen him ride past the house, and over and over again she
knew that he had thrown flowers over the wall. With trembling joy she
had carried these flowers to the privacy of her own rooms. She
questioned them, but they were mute and kept the secret that Fanfar had
undoubtedly confided to them.

Who was this Fanfar? Irene's imagination ran riot. She heard him called
a conspirator whom the police watched. He belonged to the party who
aimed at the overthrowal of the royal power. How did one so lowly
venture to menace one so high? Irene meditated and studied; her youthful
mind awoke to great truths, and she realized that men like Fanfar were
working for a great cause, and her soul was filled with noble wrath
against those persons who were ruining and dishonoring France. How
solitary she felt herself! How ignorant! How she longed to interrogate
Fanfar on these great subjects. But she well knew that this was an
impossible dream. He was far away from her, and love had made her timid.
She ceased to struggle, but all the time asked herself why he did not
come to save her from the fate hourly drawing nearer. She knew that her
mother had promised her hand to the Vicomte de Talizac, and she knew
that if she made any resistance it would break her mother's heart; but
as the hour drew near when her sacrifice was to be consummated, Irene
felt herself very weak.

She entered the Fongereues salon in a state of suppressed excitement,
very pale but very beautiful. The Marquis met her and drew her arm
through his. This marriage was his salvation. He, too, thought of Fanfar
with a certain pity, for he knew that this mountebank, as he scornfully
called him, was the only man who had the right to call himself the
Marquis de Fongereues.

Irene's arrival was the signal for the opening of the ball. The
orchestra b